


The Love We Never Gave

by unfinishedidea



Category: due South
Genre: Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-16
Updated: 2007-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfinishedidea/pseuds/unfinishedidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's not enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love We Never Gave

Fraser never imagines it happening quite like this.

Of course, he hardly imagines it happening at all, but nevertheless, if he were to conjure up a scenario, this...

This is not quite it.

Oftentimes, Fraser wonders if he's awake or dreaming, or in the uncertain realm between the two. His father often blurs the line, and he wonders if that is all insanity is -- the inability to distinguish the difference. Fraser thinks that he has always had difficulty with remaining in the here and the now, existing within reality as it was perceived by others.

Oftentimes, Fraser feels faded, like the dry, worn ink of the dusty books he once explored in a quiet corner of the Inuvik Centennial Library, and he wonders if he is just a broken fragment of someone else's imagination.

He wonders if it matters, in the end.

He's read articles about how the human body reacts under states of extreme pressure, how senses become knife-sharp, but he has always experienced the opposite -- a sense of disassociation, as if he were existing outside his body.

So what's most jarring about the current situation is exactly how aware he is of everything, his heightened sense perception. This is his body, covering Ray's. Here are his hands, tangled in sweat-dampened strands of hair. Rough stubble beneath his mouth. And Ray's... his... against Fraser's hip.

Everything is tangible, tactile, moving, changing: real.

In this moment, Fraser can feel everything, every breath, the rush of air on the inhale, lungs expanding -- exhale, the air rushing back out, mixing with Ray's, and he breathes it in, and he is dizzy with want.

Fraser sits up, knees bracketing Ray's hips. He runs his hands under Ray's shirt, sliding them slowly against Ray's skin, and Ray inhales sharply and closes his eyes and pulls off his shirt, and Fraser is desperate, clinging, alive, alive, alive.

***

  


This is how it begins:

It's been a long week. Fraser has been spending extra time at the precinct in order to help Ray with a particularly problematic case. The evidence is weeks old and almost useless, and if Ray had not managed to make the connection between Mrs. Connelley's son and the print shop on Michigan Avenue, they would both likely still be working as they have for every night in the past week, long after sundown and until Lieutenant Welsh has ordered them out of the building to eat and rest.

The arrest is clean and quick, for which Fraser is grateful, and they manage to leave the precinct by 6 p.m. -- a record so far. Fraser finds himself automatically walking with Ray towards his car and cannot bring himself to bid farewell and go about his own way. They sit in the GTO for a moment before Ray turns and says, "So, Chinese?"

Fraser hesitates, weighing the pros against the cons. Ray is likely to be just as tired as he. They both need a respite, however brief. And Fraser is unsure of how well he can maintain the carefully fabricated façade of distance that he needs to keep his volatile and inappropriate emotions well beneath the surface.

Fraser has made mistakes before.

But it has, after all, been a long week, and an uneventful evening with only Diefenbaker for company is not one that he is looking forward to. He has already indulged himself this much; he may as well fall the rest of the way.

So he smiles and says, "I'd be delighted, Ray," and Ray grins back, shifts the car into reverse, then pulls out of the parking lot.

***

Fraser has always believed that if something were to happen it would be his slip-up, his mistake, perhaps in a moment when he is caught up in his disassociation, when his actions are born more out of instinct than rational thought. The reality is somewhat more mundane, exhaustion pulling at the edges of tea-induced awareness and the peripheral smell of spices and soy sauce and slightly stale beer in the air. They are sitting -- slouching, more like -- on the couch, watching something on the Discovery Channel that Fraser has long since tuned out. Fraser turns to say something, "Thank you for dinner," perhaps, or, "It's getting rather late, and I should tend to Diefenbaker," but instead all that comes out is, "Ray," and somehow he never gets the sentence out because Ray has leaned forward and --

Ray is kissing him.

It's closed-mouthed, all too brief, and at an awkward angle, and their lips are the only point of contact between their two bodies. Ray sits back almost immediately, looking wild and terrified, but the touch has set something off in Fraser, and it ignites him like a wildfire -- he blinks and touches his mouth in surprise, and he is suddenly, achingly hard.

***

Ray says quickly, "I'm -- I'm not gay, Fraser."

Fraser says, "Oh."

"I mean, this is just an aberr-whatsit, this isn't something --" Ray breaks off, flushed.

Fraser thumbs his eyebrow. "It's quite all right, Ray -- it's been a trying few days, and this is likely just --"

"No, Fraser, Christ, you're not getting it," Ray says, looking more agitated, before suddenly leaning forward and kissing Fraser a second time, and Fraser would say, "Oh," again, but Ray doesn't stop.

***

What happens next is something of a blur. Fraser finds himself on Ray's bed, in Ray's room, tangled in the large expanse of bed sheets. But.

"Circumstances change, Benton," his grandfather once said to him, "No matter how well you prepare, it only takes a split second for you to get blindsided."

Everything comes down to this one moment. Ray is pliant (beautiful, vivid, _everything_) beneath his hands, and he stops kissing Ray momentarily, moving to unbutton Ray's pants, but -- Fraser becomes aware, almost as an afterthought, that everything has started sliding into discordance, that something is screaming at him, _wrong, wrong, wrong_, and Ray says, "Stop, Fraser, stop, _stop_," his voice rising at the end, sharp with panic. Fraser pushes up immediately, almost scrambling off the bed, holds his hands up, palms outward, non-threatening.

Ray has moved to the edge of the bed, the movement ungraceful and awkward, and Fraser is struck by how unnatural that is.

Ray is uneasily still, his back curved, coiled tension. His jaws are clenched and his hands are clasped tightly together, knuckles white.

"Ray?" Fraser asks quietly. Ray turns his head further away. Fraser tries again: "Ray, I -- I apologize if I --" but Ray cuts him of with a terse, "Don't. Just -- just don't."

Fraser closes his eyes and stands there for a moment and he -- this is why he is careful. This is why he is aloof, reserved, but Ray -- Ray undoes him unlike any other. And now -- he cannot escape it, this reality that has become askew, twisted, he can _never_ \-- "All right," he says softly, more to himself than anyone. He carefully picks up his scattered clothes, and then backs out of the room, pulling the door shut as he goes, and it closes with a soft _click_.

And this is how it ends.

***

> Ray sits there for a moment, concentrating on just breathing -- in, out. Fraser's want was like a physical thing, smothering, burning, and he breathes through the suffocating feeling of it all. ("Ray, can I -- I need -- I need to --" Fraser had said. "Ray, I want to --" and Ray fills in words, _kiss you, love you, fuck you_; they swirl in his head like a broken record.) _Fuck_, Ray thinks, and shoves the thoughts away.
> 
> He digs though the nightstand for the crumpled box of cigarettes that he always keeps, just in case. He flips one into his mouth and then searches for the lighter, cursing softly when it's not there.
> 
> The air is stifling, too hot, and his skin burns. _Fraser touched me, here_, Ray thinks, and then he's pushing the window up with a violent jerk, breathing in the crisp night air. He spots the lighter and some stubbed cigarette butts on the emergency landing. Fraser must have been here the last time he smoked. Ray's hands clench on the window sill.
> 
> He climbs out onto the landing. He's only wearing his boxers, but he sits down on the cold metal, picking up the lighter and flicking it on. There's a movement in the corner of his eye.
> 
> "I didn't know you were a fag, Ray," David says conversationally. "Dad would be so disappointed."
> 
> Ray bares his teeth and says, "Fuck off," ignoring the slight trembling of his hand as he lights the cigarette, the adrenaline starting to wear off, leaving him feeling empty. _Fight-or-flight. Fuck-or-flight. _
> 
> Jesus.
> 
> "Is that how you treat family? No wonder Mom and Dad are halfway across the country. I'm hurt."
> 
> "You're dead," Ray says shortly. He takes a deep drag, feeling the smoke burn as he breathes in.
> 
> David sighs. "So one day your bitch of a wife stabs you in the back, and no one's treating you the same."
> 
> _You were fucking your secretary_, Ray doesn't say. He doesn't know why David is here. (Not that he really fucking cares; David always seems to show up when he's fucked in the head.)
> 
> Ray tries not to think about it.
> 
> He runs one hand through his hair, then flicks his cigarette and watches as the burning ashes fall and strike the metal, sparking momentarily before dying in a wisp of smoke. Flick, fall, spark, burn. He stares at the softly glowing end, pointedly not turning his head.
> 
> "I'd fuck him over Mia any day, in any case," David says blithely, goading. "He'd probably have been more worth it. Go out with a _bang_, if you catch my drift." He smirks.
> 
> Ray snarls and uncoils, ashes and smoke swirling, but there's nothing there except indistinct shadows and empty beer bottles.

  


***

Life goes on.

5 a.m., Monday: it's still dark outside. Fraser lies motionless, breathing slowly, steadily, trying to will his body into relaxing enough to drift off into, at the very least, a fitful sleep. Exhaustion does not seem to sway his stubborn body, however, and rest eludes him.

Fraser is unsure if Ray will be there to pick him up in the morning. His gut churns at the thought and he feels himself tensing, free-falling into -- _No. No, I will not dwell upon this_, he thinks. _I will not_.

***

7 a.m.: He forces himself to get up, carefully folding the sheets and putting away the cot. He does not look at himself in the mirror as he splashes water onto his face and brushes his teeth, but he knows there are dark circles under his eyes; the past few days have not been especially conducive to sleeping.

He is unnecessarily arranging papers at the front desk, thinking to himself, _We're low on PPTC 203 forms_ \-- the daily humdrum that is working at the Consulate -- and he should force himself to accept it, he should... he should _appreciate_ it, he likely no longer has any jurisdiction in the city, after all, and it is not as if working at the Consulate is such -- is such an _imposition_ \--

A car honks sharply, twice. Fraser starts, and the stack of papers in his hand scatters to the floor.

"Sir, I -- oh dear, let me help you with that." Fraser waves Turnbull away with a jerky, quick gesture.

"It's quite all right, I'll just -- it's not a great inconvenience," Fraser says awkwardly, and Turnbull, never usually one for perception, gives him an odd look. Fraser glances away and hastily shuffles the forms together, dropping them haphazardly into the proper container. Turnbull stares at him for a moment longer before wandering away towards the kitchen.

Fraser turns to face the front entrance and finds it hard to breathe. There is a dull ache in his chest. He straightens determinedly, unnecessarily trying to neaten his serge, brushing off nonexistent dust, nervously adjusting his belts, lanyard, Stetson. He finally steels himself and pushes his way outside, the sounds of the city washing over him.

Seeing Ray's car is like a physical blow, and Fraser has never more desperately wished to be able to detach himself, to dampen the vividness of his surroundings, but this is something that he can never un-know.

He takes a deep breath, then pulls the car door open and cautiously slides in.

Ray doesn't -- won't -- look him in the eye. He fingers are tapping on the steering wheel nervously and there is a moment of uncomfortable silence before he speaks. "Listen, Fraser, I -- look, it just wouldn't have worked out, okay? I don't --" Ray stops, fiddles with his bracelet. "I don't do that."

"It's all right, Ray," Fraser says softly. It is. It will be.

Life goes on.

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [brooklinegirl](http://brooklinegirl.livejournal.com) and [bohemian__storm](http://bohemian--storm.livejournal.com) for doing awesome, enlightening betas over a freaking year and a half ago (hi, I am the slowest writer EVER), and [lynnmonster](http://lynnmonster.livejournal.com) for doing a tremendously helpful beta after I finally got around to finishing the damn thing. Title (sort of) from "Time (feat. She Want Revenge)" by Timbaland.


End file.
